An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 20

At first I thought it was simply a trick of the reflections on the water’s surface, a false portrait created by the swirling and weaving of the current. But the face grew nearer, a swimmer rising up through the water towards the air, body half-distinct. As I watched, the features grew clearer, sharper, and I was staring at the face of my dead wife, Chinara.

Her hair wove and swam around her face, as if it were alive, as if she were alive, rising to break the surface, the way she used to when we would dive into Lake Issyk-Kul, over and over, until we would clamber out onto the shore, and drink water-chilled vodka, eat fruit, share kisses.

I wanted to stretch out my hand, grasp her wrist, help her scramble into the dinghy, brush the tendrils of wet hair back from her face. But Chinara remained tantalisingly just out of reach, her eyes staring up at me, a smile on her face, the smile that broke my heart every time I remembered it. And just as my delight at seeing her was overwhelmed by the knowledge I was dreaming, her expression changed to one of anger.

She pointed to the back of the dinghy, to where Aliyev sat. Then she pointed her finger at me, mimicking a gun, pretended to fire. A warning or an instruction, I didn’t know which.

Her final smile showed her sorrow at leaving me, her eyes never straying from my face. I watched, helpless, as she sank back and was lost into the dark. And it was then I woke back into a world that no longer held the woman I once loved.

We floated down the river until the sky began to lighten in the east, and it was no longer safe to be on the water. I scrambled over the side, gasping as the water’s icy bite gnawed at my legs. I dragged the dinghy the last metre or so into the bank, stretched my hand out to help Aliyev, remembered he could walk perfectly well.

He slashed the side of the dinghy to deflate it and we watched it slowly settle into the water. With any luck, it wouldn’t be found until we were long gone, with no reason to connect it to us.

‘Now what?’

‘We walk.’

Two hours later, the sun was up, a thin mist rolling across the farmland in front of us. There wasn’t any sign of civilisation ahead, and I wondered if Aliyev had any idea of where we were going.

‘There’s a road about three kilometres ahead. I’ve arranged a pickup from there, made the call while you were asleep,’ he said.

An hour or so later, we reached a narrow track that gave every appearance of being abandoned.

‘Now we wait,’ he said, and gave a rare smile, coloured by a gold filling towards the back of his mouth. I found it reassuring that the pakhan had endured Kyrgyz dentistry along with the rest of us. No expensive private dental work in Moscow for him. A man of the people, as long as the people are also criminals. I sat down with my back resting against a tree, trying to ignore the chill seeping into my legs and sodden feet.

I must have dozed off again for a few minutes when Aliyev woke me. For a few seconds I wondered where I was, then remembered my strange nocturnal cruise along the Chui.

‘Time to go, Inspector.’

‘You’re taking me with you?’

‘Of course,’ Aliyev said, his grin hardly reassuring. ‘You’re much too important to leave behind.’

The waiting truck was held together by rust and some army-green paint. An exhaust pipe gave out an occasional tubercular cough followed by a cloud of blue smoke. I gave Aliyev a look of surprise.

‘What dim-witted rural ment is going to stop a broken-down shitheap like this?’ he said. ‘Everyone knows a pakhan wouldn’t travel anywhere in anything less than a Mercedes.’

He led the way towards the truck, with me walking off to one side, keenly aware of the rifle aimed at us from the half-open passenger window. I didn’t want to get in the line of fire if this turned out to be a bid for a new leader for the Brothers. I could tell Aliyev had the same thought, as he let his gun swing seemingly nonchalant by his side, eyes alert to a possible ambush.

He only relaxed when he saw the driver and his passenger, recognised them as loyal men. Or possibly his feet hurt as much as mine did.

‘You’re riding in the back, I’m afraid, Inspector,’ Aliyev said. ‘Don’t worry, there are enough holes in the sides to see you get lots of fresh air. And the boys will have cleaned out most of the goat and sheep shit.’

I opened the back door, took a deep breath. The boys could have done a better job, but I didn’t have much choice. I climbed in, heard the bolts scrape shut behind me. Thin shafts of light streamed in through bullet holes on one side of the truck. I picked the least dirty part of the floor and sat down on the bare metal.